


Under Hypnosis

by TeaandBanjo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Death Comes Knocking, Extended Scene, Gen, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaandBanjo/pseuds/TeaandBanjo
Summary: Jack and Phryne discuss Captain Ashmead’s mental state, and Jack shares a story.





	Under Hypnosis

Miss Phryne Fisher perched like a cat on his desk.  Jack wasn’t sure if it was the white fur wrap that brought that to mind, or the fact that she had centered herself as much as she could without actually sitting cross-legged in the middle.  

The murder they were discussing was somewhat less current than most of their cases.  It seems that a key witness was only available for questioning via spirit medium, and the suspect, Captain Ashmead, was expected to join the victim in the great beyond quite soon.  

Jack wasn’t sure why he, a policeman, was involved.  If anyone asked, he was gathering background information on the dead grave-digger, deceased in the vicinity of Lieutenant-Colonel Roland Claremont’s tomb.

Collins was supposed to be searching out some wartime records on Claremont. Jack suspected that Miss Phryne Fisher would be requesting those records, any moment now. 

“Shell shock does strange things to the mind.  It closes doors.” He felt an uncomfortable sympathy for Captain Ashmead.  A man of  Jack's own age leaning on a cane usually had a story of war trauma to match.  Jack’s memories of Europe were not pleasant.

Phryne fluffed her fur wrap, and seemed lost in the view out the window.   Her dark hair was obscured by a hat that he couldn’t decide to call either blue or gray.   

“Have you ever been hypnotized, Jack?”  

He gave the lady on his desk his full attention, and wondered where she was going with this.   “As a matter of fact, yes. Why do you ask?”

Phryne’s head, and the hat, swiveled to face him. “Some physicians have used it to treat battlefield neurosis, and according to the penny dreadfuls, a hypnotist can erase memories.  Do you think?”

“I don’t think so.”  He might as well tell the story.  “I was happy enough to be back in Melbourne after the war, but it wasn’t always an easy adjustment.”

 

 

> Constable Jack Robinson let the front door of the building swing closed behind him.  The click of the latch reminded him of something else, and he felt his hands clench in the pockets of his uncharacteristic civilian coat.  He wasn’t on police business, and no one else damn well needed to know. The slip of paper with the address was in his pocket, along with some money.  Goodness knows where Rosie had come up with that. He suspected that her mother might have funded this little visit to an expensive specialist.
> 
> Doctor Walter’s rooms were all pale paint and light wood.  His receptionist spoke with calm and soothing tones, as if she were used to dealing with anxious, shell-shocked soldiers every day.  
> 
> The doctor himself was lean, practically skeletal, and peered at him over reading glasses.  
> 
> “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mister Robinson.”  The man’s grip was firm, careful, and nonthreatening. “I spoke with your lovely wife the other day when she made your appointment.”  The doctor took his seat behind the desk.
> 
> So, thought Jack, he’s heard her side of it already.  “I’m somewhat curious as to what you you are proposing to treat, as I’ve been certified as healthy by several other medical men.”  Jack sat. He was here, he would see this through.
> 
> “I’ve no doubt you are physically healthy.”  The doctor glanced at the single sheet of paper in a folder with sharp, neat corners.  “That’s entirely too rare for someone who spent the war in Europe. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the non-physical.”
> 
> The interview was as thorough as a police interrogation, and Jack allowed himself a little bit of professional admiration at the many different ways the doctor phrased questions about how the patient’s habits had changed since his return from the war, and his trouble adjusting to normal civilian things like family life, sleeping regularly, and occasional Australian thunderstorms.
> 
> Jack did not think any of those things had been working out for him.  He found himself telling the doctor about vivid nightmares of the smell of French mud, the sound of German ordinance, and dead things that used to be soldiers and horses.  
> 
> The doctor’s pen scratched furiously against paper as Jack struggled to find the words to describe the how waking memories and the dream horrors affected him, without making himself seem a candidate for some sort of lunatic asylum.
> 
> The doctor’s careful questions moved on to effects on family members.
> 
> Jack admitted that  waking his wife up in the middle of the night had not helped his family life either.  Hence, the appointment, and whatever Rosie had been telling either the doctor or his assistant.
> 
> “Are you finding that the other symptoms are worse when you haven't slept?”   asked Doctor Walters, making another illegible note.
> 
> Jack nodded agreement.  Frustrations that he’d be willing to let go when he was well-rested turned into flashes of anger when he was fatigued.
> 
> “I’d like to see if we can improve your sleep, as a first step.  Have you ever been hypnotized?”
> 
> “No, I thought that was just a parlour trick.”  Jack frowned.
> 
> “It has some medical applications, as the access to the subconscious mind allows certain kinds of influence over nervous conditions.”  The doctor closed the folder and set the pen down neatly on top. “I’ve found it particularly effective for patients with sleep difficulties.”
> 
> Jack shrugged.  “What have I got to loose?”  

 

“Go on,” said Phryne.  “Did it work?”

“I wasn’t sure.  The first session, I was paying close attention to what he was doing, and the fifth or sixth repetition of the calming words and the dramatic hypnotic pass, I may possibly have dozed off.”   He glanced around his office. “I didn’t notice any better sleeping over the next few days, but I went back for several more hypnotic sessions.”

Phryne nodded, and shifted slightly.  Jack worried that she was going to wind up with ink on that white fur.  

“A couple of weeks later, Rosie pointed out that I wasn’t waking up at odd hours, and was I still having those dreams?”  Jack closed his eyes for a moment.

 

 

> Robinson’s long-legged stride carried him home to the tiny bungalow.  The sunset was lovely, and the scent of other people’s front garden flowers sang of Melbourne in the late Summer.  
> 
> The front door was not locked.  He could smell cooking, and hear the tick of silverware being laid in the dining room.  
> 
> His dark wool uniform coat had its own hanger by the door.  He hung it carefully, and the buttons gleamed in the light.
> 
> “Boots off, darling.”  Rosie ordered from the kitchen.  
> 
> Jack smiled.  He was finally getting used to being back in Melbourne.  He was starting to feel like he belonged here.
> 
> After dinner, the two of them tidied the kitchen.  Together, they washed, dried, and put each plate and piece of silver back in its proper stack in the cupboard.
> 
> Rosie cuddled against him, and he put an arm around her.  “You’ve been sleeping better, recently. Did the sessions with Dr. Walters help with the dreams?”
> 
> The smell of burning cordite, the sounds of the shells blotted out Jack’s view the orderly little kitchen. The images of mud, and barbed wire, and feel of damp cold came flooding back.  
> 
> How had he forgotten about the war?  
> 
> Dr. Walters calm voice asked “Have you ever been hypnotized?”  
> 
> “It’s all still in there!  That absolute quack...hypnosis is a bloody useless parlor trick.”  He shoved Rosie away, and she stood in the kitchen doorway, poised to flee.  He wanted to hold her, but the realization that he was the thing she was afraid of froze him to the spot.  He made himself turn away.
> 
> Jack slumped into the chair, and pressed his forehead against the table, as if mere oak could obscure the things that lived in his brain, now.  “It’s going to come back! Why did you have to remind me?”
> 
> The effort to pull himself together took time, and when he stood up, he found that he was alone in the kitchen.  
> 
> She wasn’t in the parlour either.  He wished he’d been a little bit tougher.  Rosie didn’t need to see him lose control again.  They both knew the war was done, and whatever was left of the trenches was far away.  There was just that little piece of it that lived in his head...and it was still there.  
> 
> Jack reached for one of the familiar novels of the American West, and sank into the armchair next to the reading lamp. Danger and adventure that had nothing to do with mud, or Germans. It was a good distraction. He’d be able to divert his mind, while his hands stopped shaking.
> 
>  

“Somehow, I’d forgotten about the dreams, and now she had reminded me, and I was sure they were going to come back.  I was furious.”

“Did they?”  Phryne rested a hand on his desk.  Jack wasn’t sure if she’d been reaching for him and thought better of it.  He supposed it was just as well she was keeping her distance.

 

 

> Several chapters into the novel, he was interrupted.
> 
> “Jack,” Rosie said softly, from behind the chair.  She rested a small hand on his shoulder.
> 
> “Come to bed, Jack.”  Her hair hung over her shoulder in a thick, dark braid.  “It’s late.” She was dressed for bed, barefoot and wrapped in her dressing gown.
> 
> “I owe you an apology.”  He set the book down, and let out a long breath.    “I’m just getting used to being home, and I’d managed, somehow, to forget that I had been away.  You reminded me, and the memory hurts. You didn’t know. I can’t take it out on you.”
> 
> “I thought I had the old Jack back, for a little bit.”  She held out her hand. “I need to do better with the Jack I have now.”  
> 
> He brushed his fingers across her palm and unfolded himself from the chair to stand in front of her.  “I'm home now. You can stop worrying about me.”
> 
> “I will never stop worrying about you.”  Rosie’s hands were gentle against the back of his neck.  “Every day, in the Argus, they printed the war news on the front page, and a list of dead boys from Melbourne on the back.  Do you have any idea how many John Robinsons died before it was over?”
> 
> Jack shook his head.  He’d gone to school with a few of them, and known a few more from church....He did not actually know which little Johns were buried in somewhere in France, and which ones were back home.
> 
> “Not your rank, or middle name, or where your last letter came from, but it was always too close to being you.”  The tremor in her voice was one that Jack knew was moments away from tears. Her eyes were sad, in a way he did not remember, and there were fine lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there in 1914.
> 
> “I don't imagine that would be easy to forget.”  He rested his fingers lightly on her hips, and kissed her forehead.  How many newspapers in all the years of war, and how many unfortunate John Robinsons?
> 
> She clung to him, and sobbed.  He wasn’t sure if putting his arms around her was any use at all, but it was all he had to offer.
> 
> Jack carefully steered her to the sofa, and ended up with her curled against him.  He wondered if a particular kind of bicycle bell would remind her of the uniformed boy from the telegraph office.  It would be ridiculous to ask her to turn off that much pain like a light switch.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” she whispered, a few minutes later.  “I’m not supposed to add my problems to yours.”
> 
> He wondered if some of her moments of brittle silence at the breakfast table had been prompted by a memory, not by his presence.  “Who told you that?”
> 
> “Other women lost husbands and sons, but…”
> 
> “I came home,” he finished for her, and swiped a thumb across her damp cheek.  “I don’t expect that will make it totally alright, right away, but I would if I could.”
> 
> Rosie examined him carefully.  She nodded. “Come to bed. We can make each other tired enough to sleep.”
> 
>  
> 
> The first light of the morning woke him.  Rosie’s bare shoulder and the tangle of sheets were ripples like sand dunes, or waves crashing against the beach.  Birds chimed to each other outside the window, and the heavy footfall of a horse was matched with the creak of the milk cart it pulled behind.
> 
> Bits of a dream floated to the surface…
> 
>  

“The next morning, I remembered that I’d had that particular dream again, except that it was more like reading a ten-year-old newspaper clipping.  The terror had faded out.”

“The hypnosis?”  He noticed that her hand was now in her lap, resting lightly on the white fur.

“I believe it was some sort of post hypnotic suggestion.   Perhaps he told me that the dreams were far away, and not important.  Maybe even that I didn’t need to remember.” Jack now wondered how much talking he’d done while in the hypnotic state.

“I’ve read up on the practice, after dealing with the Great Hypno,” said Phryne.  “Was that Dr. Laurence Walters, by the way?”

“Yes.  And you knew, because?”  

“Mac found me some articles in a couple of medical journals.”  Her smile was feline. “Dr. Walters authored a number of papers on treating returning servicemen.  He recommended a series of hypnotic sessions to select the precise message needed to treat the patient’s particular battle neurosis.”

“Needs a couple of shots to sight in, I suppose.”  Jack doubted that Dr. Walters would describe it in those terms.

“Jack!”  Her expression was now one of amusement.

“Once a rifleman, always a rifleman.”  Jack leaned back in his chair.

“You haven’t fired a rifle in years.”  She flicked her fingers dismissively.

Jack nodded.  “I’ll rephrase -- trial and error will allow the hypnotist to select the most effective suggestions to treat the particular conditions of the patient.”

“That was more or less the conclusion of the paper.”

“I don’t think that a medical treatment would have been able to remove Captain Ashmead’s memory of Claremont’s death.”  Jack pressed fingers against his forehead. “I’m of the opinion that the memory loss is a result of the trauma itself.”

“My thoughts exactly!”  Phryne’s eyes sparkled with the thrill of the puzzle.  “Freddie’s memory seems quite clear except for the moment of the pistol shot, but he doesn't trust that dispatcher’s report. So, if you were to obtain Roland's war records as part of your inquiry into the cemetery murder…”

“And how would that help?”  Jack wondered when Collins would be back with that file...if he could just keep the lady detective talking for a few more minutes...

“Medical details. The name of the doctor in the field hospital who treated Roland. Someone must know the whole story.”  

“Why bother with records when Mrs. Bolkonsky can go direct to the source?” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The actual dialogue:
> 
> Jack: “Shell shock does mysterious things to the mind. It closes doors.”  
> Phryne: “But he doesn't trust that dispatches report. So, if you were to obtain Roland's war records as part of your inquiry into the cemetery murder…”  
> Jack: “And how would that help?”  
> Phryne: “Medical details. The name of the doctor in the field hospital who treated Roland. Someone must know the whole story.”  
> Jack: “Why bother with records when Mrs Bolkonsky can go direct to the source?”
> 
> Read more at: http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=288&t=18180
> 
> So, that’s an extra five minutes of dialogue and flashbacks wedged into a bit of short, tight dialogue that advances the plot.


End file.
